


whispers

by Nebbles



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Psychological Horror, Unsettling, more tags to be added with each entry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26823553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebbles/pseuds/Nebbles
Summary: The Heroes' Relics hold a great history, passed down through the generations as a status of longevity and power to Crest-bearing noble families in Fodlan.Or so the story goes.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ferdinand von Aegir & Lorenz Hellman Gloucester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 51





	1. Sylvain

**Author's Note:**

> hee hee hoo hoo happy spooky month 
> 
> This is based off a personal headcanon I have of "what if the heroes relics were haunted/could 'speak' to their owners" and how it'd manifest in each wielder. Why not start off strong with Sylvain?
> 
> Will try to update throughout the month!

Somewhere halfway through this bottle of wine, too warm and too bitter, Sylvain realizes how vivid Conand Tower still is in his mind.

It’s as if he’s encased in the walls of hell itself, dark and enclosing, claws ripping from bloodied brick to wrap around his neck. There are no sounds but the heavy, rasping snarls of a beast, its breath hot and suffocating. Its claws are slick with blood, and covered by a black substance that’s heavy like tar. It’s hot to the touch, but it feels light and hollow, woven from insect carcasses. It smells of iron, of fresh gore, and it stains his tongue with the taste of copper. 

The room is dark. There’s no light other than the eerie glow from a lance forged from the fires of hell. 

It’s blinding. Sylvain wonders that maybe, if he stares too long, it’ll burn out his eyes. 

Maybe those black tendrils will crawl free from the lance and rip them out instead. 

If this happens, he’ll stop seeing Miklan’s silhouette in the shadows. He’ll still hear the beast, how its roars shook the tower more than the thunder that dared to topple it. He’ll still hear the animosity that drips from Miklan’s words like blood from a festering wound.

The cries of the damned rang in his ears as his lance tore through thick scales and sinewy muscle. All the while, viscous saliva ran down his arms and stained his uniform. The black beast fell to the ground with Sylvain’s lance embedded into its skull, and shortly after did its form wither away into black wisps as Miklan’s hollow gaze met Sylvain’s eyes.

Whatever happened after that, at least, he’s been able to drown out with enough wine.

Sylvain takes another swig, and nearly gags at how it tastes like blood. He sets the bottle to its side with a groan, and wonders through his drunken stupor how ridiculous he must look. 

The heir to House Gautier, bearing a Crest that shackles him to a life of expectations he’s never wanted and hides it all under a smile and wink, is ready to be sick on the floor. 

_ Pathetic,  _ he hears in a whisper. 

His eyes dart around an empty room. Shadows can’t speak. They shouldn’t be able to speak. 

_ You finally won. This is what you’re doing with yourself? _

Wide eyes look to the lance. If this is a nightmare, if the alcohol’s claimed him already, Sylvain wants to wake up. 

_ I knew you were a fool. _

The bottle slips out of his hand and shatters, fragments of glass and wine staining his floor. The urge to vomit rises as the sharp taste of blood coats his tongue.

“Mik...Miklan?” He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s  _ dead.  _

_ I thought you’d be happier. Wouldn’t mother and father be proud of you?  _

For murder? Is that what the Gautier legacy amounted to? Is this what their (his?) father’s done to Sreng over the years? It makes sense, given how often Miklan’s come close to taking Sylvain’s life. Even in death, his taunts run wild, poisoning his mind further than wine ever could.

“Only returning your gracious gifts,” he says with a slight hiccup, “sorry I didn’t have a well to throw you down.”

It’s not as though he wants the stupid lance anyway. A part of him remains disgusted at the professor’s insistence that he keeps it, for reasons that remain unclear. 

Maybe it’s prudent to drive the lance through  _ their _ chest and have  _ their  _ blood spill everywhere and have everyone pity  _ them _ \--

A sharp knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. It’s for the best.

“Sylvain? Are you alright?” Ah. Dimitri. Bitterly, he remembers their rooms are adjacent. “I heard a terrible crash a moment ago.”

He finds himself stuck; silence offers no comforts. Sylvain knows his words are slurred, and knows that it’ll invite an inevitable lecture. At least it’s not Felix or Ingrid. He’s heard enough from them both, Ingrid’s misplaced pity and a gaze from Felix he finds unreadable. But hey, so what if Dimitri knows? 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says in a tone far too easy going, “I’m fine, Dimitri! Totally!” A silver tongue coated in wine is less effective, Sylvain’s bound to discover. 

“Have you been drinking?” Ah, there’s the beginning of that lecture! Good ol’ Dimitri. “If it is alright, may I please come in?”

Is the door even locked? Sylvain can’t remember. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

It’s hard to miss the unease on Dimitri’s face in the soft glow of the candle he holds. His eyes trace to the shattered bottle on the floor, and then to the Lance of Ruin. “May I ask why this is not in the armory?”

“Doesn’t Felix keep swords in his room?” He’s almost sad the wine is gone now. Stupid Miklan. Stupid lance. “I don’t-” he gives another hiccup, “-see the problem.”

“Yes, but…” Dimitri continues to look around the room with ( _ misplaced, _ the lance whispers) concern. “You are doing so in the dark, and you have been drinking.” 

The wine soaking into the floorboards is pungent. “Sooo? I’ll come to class tomorrow. I’ll be fine.”

“Sylvain, I would prefer if you were to rest for the night.” Ugh, this may actually be worse than Ingrid or Felix. Why isn’t Dimitri yelling at him? “Perhaps in the infirmary so Professor Manuela can monitor your health.”

“Pffftt.” What health? It’s not as if the scar Miklan’s left on his arm is of great concern. “I’ll be fine. I’m not gonna bleed out. Mercedes healed me.”

“I mean if you happen to fall ill from how much wine you’ve had.” Sylvain groans as Dimitri goes to help him off the floor and anchors an arm around his waist. “May you humor me this once?”

Stupid Dimitri and his stupid strength, he almost whines out loud. “Fine. Just… just don’t tell Felix, okay? I don’t need him worrying about me. Or Ingrid.”

Dimitri sighs heavily, but offers a slow nod. “Can you promise me this won’t happen again?”

“Sure!” As if. “Can’t disappoint the future king with my actions, right?”

He opens his mouth as if to offer further words, but Dimitri continues to lead Sylvain out of his room, where the whispers cannot follow. 

Sylvain’s never been happier to be alone with his thoughts.

* * *

A haunting air hangs low in the training grounds, a thick fog that threatens to steal the air from Sylvain’s lungs. He fears another sharp intake of air may cause them to shrivel up and snap. It’s like he’s taking a page from Felix’s book, train and train until you can’t think, train and train until your body’s ready to give up, train and train because it’s all you’re worth to your father. 

Train and train, because Miklan can’t hurt you if you’re strong enough to take a hit, even if you never fight back.

The Lance of Ruin is heavy in his arms. 

_ This thing killed me, didn’t it? Hoping for the same, little brother? _

Sylvain freezes mid-lunge, the lance’s tip a hair’s breadth away from skewering a training dummy in the chest. 

He blinks sweat from his eyes, posture straightened as he looks around the room. No one’s there. The training grounds are colder than they should be. 

Sylvain stares at the lance. It stares back, twitching and pulsating, as if it’s a creature rasping for air with its dying breaths. With one hand still wrapped around its hilt, his other raises, fingers brushing over the jagged spikes that jut out from its blade. 

It’s smoother than it should be. The material is foreign, and Sylvain’s doesn’t want to know what it’s made of.

_ Don’t you want to pay back what he did to you?  _

It’s a facsimile of Miklan’s voice, the snarls and roars of the Black Beast breathed in between each word. They rake down Sylvain’s neck like nails on a chalkboard. There’s a part of him that urges Sylvain to set the lance aside, to  _ leave,  _ to talk to the Professor or to Felix or to anyone who’s not going to think he’s lost his mind when speaking about a lance with a mind of its own. Consequently, Sylvain’s always loathed this lance. He’s loathed how it’s nothing but a symbol (an  _ excuse) _ to what his father constitutes as safety towards his own lands. 

The lance jitters uncomfortably in his hand, its barbs twitching like the legs of a dying spider.

He takes one of them in his hands and  _ twists. _ The resulting crack he hears is reminiscent of a broken bone, a sickening  _ snap  _ that curdles the breakfast in his stomach. 

Shrieks of the damned follow. They screech in his mind, a cacophony of sickening pain, a hissing of blinding agony. The harder Sylvain twists, the louder the screams get until his ears ring and a dull pain throbs in the back of his head. 

“The fuck--” As the lance is tossed to the ground, pulsating and twitching and  _ begging  _ for life, the voices stop. The fragment in his hand burns, and he’s quick to drop it to the floor. When Sylvain looks at his hand, it’s stained with tar.

It’s the same substance that wove around Miklan’s corpse and turned him into a monster.

When Sylvain stumbles out of the training hall, he vomits into a nearby bush.

* * *

The lance hasn’t left his room since. It rests upon a corner, gaze fixed on the heir, the one who’s supposed to wield it with ease. It breathes miasma into the air, weighing down Sylvain’s body with lead as it continues to squirm like a soldier that is begging for death. 

He’s tempted to tear it into bits, but he doesn’t want to warp into that black beast who nearly stole his life in Conand Tower. He’s been able to wash the tar off, scrubbing at his skin until it’s raw and bloody, but Sylvain swears it’s still there. It’s still there, and it’s going to crawl into his eyes and lungs and change him into Miklan. He’s going to become a monster, just like his brother. He’s going to prowl through the monastery, unfettered by the restraints of weathered brick, snapping his friend’s bodies one by one.

He’ll be no better than his brother.

_ Having a Crest won’t save you. _

_ It never has. _

_ It never will. _

Sylvain’s not sure if the whispers are the lance’s or his own.


	2. Lorenz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At obtaining Thyrsus, Lorenz believes he should feel a sense of pride, of accomplishment--security that his future place as the leader of Alliance is within his grasp.
> 
> He feels anything but.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "lorenz is one of my favorite characters" I say as I make him go through it in this chapter, but I have a lot of feelings concerning his paralogue and the dialogue before/after it, so I worked that into the nightmares/voices he hears from Thyrsus. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include blood, nightmares, and paranoia.

It hardly comes as a surprise when Thyrsus is placed back into his hold by the Professor with a nod that affirms he _is_ rather worthy of wielding his family’s relic. Gloucester’s legacy rests upon his shoulders, as well as the Alliance’s--who is better to wield it than its future leader? None other than a noble of such pedigree as himself would be more suited for the job! Surely the Professor sees such latent skill within each spell he casts, how elegant his form is with each flourish of his hand.

Thyrsus is certainly not the most attractive relic to view, its odd spines (spires? Spikes? Even he cannot think of a word!) snake out from its wand-like appearance, an ominous red glow emanating from the Crest stone inside. Quite a shame it is not as refined as himself, but perhaps an air of elegance shall be obtained by remaining in close proximity to a man of his stature. 

He inspects it with a thoughtful hum as he stands in the training grounds, sleeves rolled up as to not singe them whilst training. While normally he’d scoff at such an unrefined appearance, it would be rather embarrassing to burn his uniform. Such sloppy form, unable to handle a bit of fire… how unlike him it would be. With one hand wrapped around its staff, Lorenz’s other is stretched out towards a nearby dummy. 

He barely works through one fire spell before searing pain tears through his arm. His fingers twitch around Thyrsus; Lorenz takes in a deep breath before steadying himself, uttering the spell once more. Could it be the power the relic holds, and he simply is unused to it? If such happens to be the case, then Lorenz shall rise to the occasion. His response shall be to train _harder,_ to master this new task that he’s been assigned. 

His fire arcs past the dummy, and before Lorenz can be proud of such a display, the pain in his arm worsens. It’s as if the spines on Thyrsus have twitched to life, snaking down his arms like thorns on a rosebush, barbs embedding into his skin. A choked gasp leaves him, eyes wrenched shut in agony as he falls to his knees; they peel past his flesh, blood brighter than the rose that adorns his chest. The pain is sickening, and Lorenz fears to open his eyes to see the mess he’s made of the training grounds as Thyrsus continues to embed itself in his flesh. Vines tear their way through his veins, attempting to reach for his bones and twist his arm in a sickening angle.

Despite this, he peeks one open to see not a single mark lies upon his skin. While it’s fallen to the floor, Thyrsus remains intact, its crest stone faintly glowing. No blood decorates its thorny spires, and it leaves Lorenz in a panic.

What had he just witnessed? 

Unsteady fingers hover above the relic, unsure if it should make its way back into his hold. It’s rude to leave it here, to paint himself as slovenly when he is the very opposite. What noble would he be, leaving his family’s relic in the dirt? Despite the trepidation that runs cold in his body, Lorenz grasps it once more as he rises onto his feet. 

_Your father’s blood is on your hands._

He blinks, and glances around the deserted training grounds in search of this unknown voice he cannot recognize, cannot place. His father’s blood? It sounds like such utter nonsense, yet something tugs at the corners of his mind to argue it is anything but.

_Its prestige is built upon a mountain of corpses, their skulls your father’s throne. This is his legacy, and it shall bury you in carnage. I am only returning a fraction of the people’s suffering unto you._

Lorenz’s first thought is that he has passed out from the pain, and this is a cruel nightmare. Gloucester, its roads paved with bodies, their blood used to till the soil in the gardens--surely that’s nothing more than lies. While he doesn’t agree with his father often, to label him so cruel… What foundation are these whispers built upon?

_Your ignorance will be your end._

Lorenz’s head begins to throb as thousands of nails dig at the inside of his skull. The agony is blinding, and the doors of the training grounds come into play through his bleary eyes. If he can make it to his room, to set Thyrsus down, to allow himself a moment to _think,_ perhaps he can make sense of these frenzied words that seem to emanate from the relic.

...The _relic._ How ludicrous he feels to humor the notion that an inanimate object could speak. It’s easier to believe than the fact his death would come, were he to continue following in his father’s footsteps. 

His steps are unsteady as they make their way towards the exit.

* * *

It’s during his weekly afternoon tea with Ferdinand that someone comments on his appearance. 

“Forgive me if I offend you, Lorenz, but your complexion appears rather pallid as of late.” He sets down the cup on his saucer with a frown. “If you were unwell, I would not have minded waiting for our usual conversations of tea.” 

“It is nothing, Ferdinand.” Lorenz waves a hand dismissively and takes a small sip of tea. It tastes of rusted copper. He’s kept Thyrsus close by, to inspect it, and it’s only worsened his condition. “It would not be kind of me to cancel at the last minute.” 

“I would normally agree with you, but… if you are ill, your health takes greater priority than a finely brewed pot of tea,” he says, “and as a friend, I am only speaking out of concern.”

“Would wasting this tea not be an insult to its kind?” Lorenz has to blink a few times to put his vision back into focus. The worried expression hasn’t left Ferdinand’s face. “...do I truly look so ill?”

With a nod, Ferdinand removes one of his gloves, and goes to place the back of his hand to Lorenz’s forehead. “Goodness! Your skin feels like ice, Lorenz!” He’s quick to rise, offering out the same hand with a further worried expression. “I am to escort you to the infirmary, and I shall not hear any argument coming from you. Professor Manuela shall see you at once.”

Lorenz knows not to argue, despite how humiliating it feels to leave their tea unattended in the gardens, how his body is racked with chills as he’s escorted to care he is unsure that will _help._ How is he to explain what is wrong, with the only explanation this ill feeling began when Thyrsus was placed within his hold? Did the professor know this would occur? Did _Father?_

Mind heavy with fog, Lorenz barely registers the conversation Ferdinand and Professor Manuela have. He’s in a cot within the blink of an eye, blankets tucked around him, their voices nothing more than faint murmurs as his consciousness fades.

* * *

In Lorenz’s dreams, he sees a demon.

The demon bears the silhouette of his father, features obfuscated by shadow, crimson roses adorning his claws and horns, eyes stark white. Each petal drifts to the ground like droplets of blood, snaking a path that soaks Lorenz’s feet (and it’s soft, delicate like roses, and it makes Lorenz wish to _vomit)_. His grip around Thyrsus lies steady, the relic’s spires brushing against his throat.

Lorenz does not know whether it is beads of blood or sweat that wet his skin.

 _I knew you were never worthy. A disgrace to the Gloucester legacy._

“But I have not strayed from your course…” The warm, discomforting wetness coils around Lorenz’s legs. “You sent me to the Officer’s Academy to follow in your name.” 

_You have failed already. You cannot handle Thyrsus. Why would anyone trust you to handle Gloucester, or the Alliance?_

“A single misstep does not prove I am unworthy…!” No, no he cannot lose this! What will he do with himself if disowned, cast aside like he was nothing?

The demon is silent, empty eyes boring holes into Lorenz. It turns its back to Lorenz, dripping claws still wrapped around Thyrsus. Somehow, its steps are quiet as the demon walks away, melting into the shadows. 

“Father?” The blood turns into a thick, vicious substance, bright red to contrast the black expanse he is trapped in, dragging him into the void. “Father, please--do not leave me here!” 

His world turns dark.

When Lorenz awakens with a start, he clutches his chest in a clammy hand, heart pounding in his ribcage. His fingers curl around the rose emblazoned onto his uniform, yet the petals do not feel soft. They’re brittle and cold, and crumble to ash in his palm. 

He blinks rapidly, heart within his throat, and closes his eyes once more.

 _This cannot be real,_ he repeats to himself as the rose cracks and withers, _this must be a mere continuation of my nightmare._

An eternity seems to pass before Lorenz opens his eyes, rose pristine as ever, its petals weighted with death.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, make sure to leave a comment/kudos! If you want to hear about future works and rambles, make sure to follow me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/that_nebbles)


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